License to Thrill (2 page)

“Here you go,” the flight attendant said as she woke Jo from a long nap and handed her a disc. “Special delivery.”

“What is it?” Jo asked with a yawn. She couldn't recall
ordering a video—not even in her sleep. But the woman had already disappeared down the aisle.

As Jo began examining the DVD Caylin stirred awake and squinted into the bright sunlight streaming through the window. Meanwhile Theresa napped on, lightly snoring.

Jo nudged Theresa with her elbow. “Wakey wake,” she sang. “Looks like we have some viewing material here.”

Caylin grabbed the disc out of Jo's hands and studied the label.
“Three American Werewolves in London,”
she read with a laugh. “Obviously from The Tower.”

Theresa snorted. “I'm offended!”

“Well, we
can
transform ourselves in the blink of an eye,” Caylin offered. “You know, with disguises.”

“And I love wearing fur as long as it's fake,” Jo added. She took the disc back from Caylin and popped it into the DVD player embedded in the seat back before her.

“Hopefully we'll finally find out what we're supposed to be
doing
,” Caylin said as she rushed to hit the play button. “Earphones, everyone.”

A shot of a black limousine filled the screen and the rich voice of Uncle Sam, their boss, filled the silence. “Good
morning, Spy Girls,” he intoned. “You're almost there.”

Jo impulsively hit pause. “Doesn't he sound too gorgeous?” she swooned. Ever since Jo had first heard Uncle Sam's voice, she'd been dying to meet him. But neither she nor her two partners had ever been allowed to see Uncle Sam's face—it seemed to be the most heavily guarded secret The Tower held. Naturally the suspense made Jo's imagination run wickedly wild. “If he's even half as foxy as his voice is—”

“Stop drooling, Jo,” Theresa admonished. “You're going to get saliva all over the seats, and they'll boot us back to coach.”

Without a word Caylin reached over and unpaused the disc.

Killjoys, Jo thought, rolling her eyes. They're always obliterating my buzz!

“Once you go through baggage claim and customs at Heathrow,” Uncle Sam continued, “you'll be met by a chauffeur holding this sign.” The limo image was replaced with a shot of a cheesy-looking driver holding a handwritten sign reading Stevens. “That's it for now, ladies. Welcome to
London . . . and good luck on your maiden mission.”

As the screen faded to black, Jo removed her earphones and frowned in confusion. “Stevens?” she wondered aloud. “Who in the world is Stevens?”

Caylin pressed the fast-forward button, but there was nothing else on the disc. “That doesn't tell us anything!” she complained.

“I can't take this suspense much longer,” Theresa moaned. “Those folks at The Tower
really
know how to lead a girl on, don't they?”

“Seriously,” Jo murmured, her mind returning to the day she'd discovered that The Tower was not what she thought. She had been totally psyched about having an opportunity to see the world and do good things for the underprivileged—the kinds of things her father would have been proud to see her achieve. But that dream, like her father, had been killed in an instant.

Jo winced at the memory. She'd only been a high school freshman, sweet little Josefina Mercedes Carreras, the pride and joy of her father, who had defected from Cuba as a teenager and risen to prominence as one of Florida's most
powerful judges. But then came that horrible day—the day Jo knew would haunt her for the rest of her life. Judge Victor Carreras had driven her to school and was just about to kiss her good-bye when shots rang out. He was gunned down by a vicious emissary from the drug cartel he had tried so hard to bring to justice.

An orphan at fourteen, Jo remembered, holding back tears. Her Brazilian-born mother had died during childbirth, so her father was the only family she had. Or so she'd thought until her aunt Thalia—her mother's sister—stepped into her life and brought Josefina to live in Miami with her and her husband, Enrique. Her newfound aunt and uncle took her on frequent trips to Brazil and introduced her to an extended family she never knew she had.

Still, the pain of losing her father was too great to bear. After she transferred to a new high school, she rejected good-little-girl Josefina and became fun-loving, boy-crazy Jo, connoisseur of fast food, faster fashion, and the fastest cars on earth. As hard as she tried to let go of her tragic past, it jumped up and bit her at the most inappropriate times—such as when The Tower informed her she was
about to become a top secret international spy. She definitely wanted to fight for truth, justice, and the American way—her father had taught her well about that. Still, she couldn't help but fear that someday she would end up meeting the same senseless fate he had.

Suddenly the speaker above Jo's head crackled, breaking through her morose thoughts and shaking her back to reality. “We are beginning our final descent into London Heathrow,” the captain announced. “Please fasten your seat belts. . . .”

Caylin immediately began following his orders. “Whoo-hoo!” she cheered. “It's about time!”

“I wonder what's in store for us when we touch down,” Theresa mumbled, her gray eyes lost in thought.

“My feelings exactly,” Jo said quietly as she gazed out the window at the clear blue sky. “One thing's for sure—our lives will never be the same again.”

“I
hate
baggage claim,” Caylin groaned as she lugged her oversized bags toward customs. “My stuff is always the last to go by.”

“They save the best for last,” Theresa quipped.

“And now another line,” Caylin moaned. “Waiting is the worst.
Especially
waiting for customs. I gotta be on the move.”

“But look around! There's so much to see while we wait!” Jo said in excitement. “Everything here is so different—from the people to the clothes to the pay phones. This is just too incredible.”

“As incredible as those customs boys, Jo?” Theresa asked, motioning to the two guys checking passports straight ahead.

Jo grinned. “Talk about hotties.”

Caylin looked the guys up and down. “Yep, you could definitely fry an egg on them,” she admitted. They looked maybe eighteen or nineteen and wore red button-down jackets with black slacks. Their short, neat dos were extra shiny, as if they had been heavily gelled recently. Basically the guys looked as if they belonged in a Brit-pop band—a band Caylin would have gladly put aside her surfboard to see, no matter how tasty the waves were.

“Well, those guys are
way
too pale for my taste,” Theresa said. “Haven't they ever heard of that blazing ball of fire in the sky—the
sun
?”

“We're in England, not the islands,” Jo pointed out. “Pale boys with dark hair are always the flavor of the month here.”

Theresa leaned her head on Caylin's shoulder and made puppy eyes at the fellas. “Okay, second opinion. They
are
pretty cute.”

Caylin shrugged Theresa off her shoulder playfully. “Take a chill pill,” she murmured. “We're almost there.”

“Passport?” Customs Boy No. 1 asked, his chestnut eyes boring into Caylin's own set of peepers.

“Sure,” Caylin replied. As she handed over the navy blue booklet her fingers touched his for a millisecond, sending a shiver down her spine. She focused in on his shiny gold name tag: Ian. How beautifully British.

Ian opened the passport to the page with her vitals and squinted at the pic. “Length of stay?” he asked, stone-faced.

“Um, indefinite,” she answered with a thousand-watt grin.

The corners of Ian's lips turned up slightly.

“Purpose of your visit?” he asked, meeting her gaze once again.

“To preserve world peace,” she replied, deadpan. The second the words were out of her mouth, she heard Jo and Theresa stifling giggles behind her.

Ian chuckled. “No, seriously—what is the purpose of your visit?”

Caylin flipped her blond hair behind her shoulder flirtatiously. “Visiting my aunt . . . Stevens.”

“Address while you're here?”

I have no idea, she realized. As she rolled her eyes up in cluelessness she decided to play off the move as if
she had an airhead merit badge. “Um, me and my friends here, we're, like, staying in this hotel?” she replied in that statement-as-question tone she always found so grating.

“Which hotel is that, luv?” Ian asked, clearly amused.

“Oh, I can't
rememberrr
,” she trilled. “My aunt, she's, like, out there somewhere?” She pointed past checkpoint security. “She's taking us there herself. I can get her if you—”

“No, that won't be necessary, miss,” Ian replied. “Why aren't you staying with your aunt?”

“Well, she's kinda old. You know.” Caylin rolled her eyes and feigned a yawn.

Ian winked and stamped her passport forcefully. “Very well, Miss Pike,” he said. “Enjoy London.”

Theresa handed over her passport with a coy smile. “If you're a good representation of the male population, she'll have no prob enjoying your fair city.”

As Ian gave Theresa the same drill, Caylin sighed with relief. The getting-the-aunt thing had been a gamble, but it had worked, just as Caylin knew it would. Guys never argue with an airhead, she thought. They crumble every time.

Caylin smiled as Theresa, through with her own private inquisition, did a quick brow sweep and came over to join her. She mouthed the words, That was close.

I know, Caylin mouthed back as she watched Jo begin to flirt wildly with Ian. But just when she thought they would all be home free, the words she'd been dreading to hear boomed throughout the checkpoint.

“Would you please open this case for me, Miss Carreras?”

•  •  •

“Why should I have to open a suitcase when no one else had to?” Jo complained, deeply horrified. The case Ian had singled out just happened to be the one holding a few key pieces of supersecret spy equipment supplied by The Tower. If Ian uncovers any of it, she realized, good old Scotland Yard will be called in to haul all three of us off to the hoosegow!

“Because this one is by far the bulkiest,” Ian explained as he put the dreaded case on the metal table with a smile. “And if you have nothing to hide, you won't mind opening it. Right, luv?”

Your cuteness rating just dropped a million points,
buddy, Jo thought angrily. She glanced over at Caylin and Theresa, who were both obviously doing their best not to freak.

“Listen,” Jo seethed. “I put my blood, sweat, and
tears
into this packing job, okay? I stuffed so many clothes in this suitcase, it took, like, half an hour to zip the stupid thing up. So I'm warning you, if you open it . . . there's no guaranteeing you'll
ever
get it shut again.”

Theresa gave a shaky laugh. “Yeah, she's right. I mean, the thing is so stuffed, I was afraid it would explode and blow up the whole plane!”

Jo felt as if her heart had just stopped dead. The rest of her body stock-still, she turned her head slowly in Theresa's direction. She felt as if she had turned into Robocop or something. In fact, she was almost certain that her head swivel and subsequent jaw drop were accompanied by a high-pitched robotic whine. Furious, she gave Theresa the end-all glare to end all end-all glares.

“Beg your pardon? Is—is that a joke?” Ian asked, the flat, lifeless note in his voice indicating just how hysterically unfunny he found it.

Theresa noshed on her nails as if they were covered in chocolate. “Heh . . . sorry. Not funny.”

“Indeed.” Ian shook his head. “Well, I'll just have to have a look, then.” He motioned for Jo to undo the locks.

Thanks a bunch, T., Jo thought with a gulp. She mentally crossed her fingers, praying Ian wouldn't find the shoe cam or the pressed powder compact phone too fishy.

As Ian shuffled through the bag someone behind Jo cleared his throat angrily. She snapped her head around in alarm but only saw a line of impatient, innocent-looking travelers, all checking their watches and shooting Jo dirty looks.

“Seems like the natives are getting restless,” Caylin remarked as Ian picked up the shoe cam.

Ian didn't seem to notice Caylin
or
the beads of sweat forming at Jo's temples. He ran his fingers slowly over the shoe, turning every second into an hour. Jo's palms became swimming pools. Ian looked at the heel a beat longer—too long, Jo thought—before he quickly set it back atop the
mound of mussed clothes. “Thanks, luv,” he said, stamping her passport and motioning her past.

“That's
it 
?” Jo cried.

Ian's perfect brow wrinkled. “How do you mean?” he asked suspiciously.

Whoops!
“I mean . . . aren't you going to help me shut this thing?” Jo amended hastily as she mentally kicked herself in her Prada-clad behind.

“I can't be of assistance, I'm afraid, what with the queues and all,” he apologized, managing to zip it up halfway. “But enjoy your stay.”

“You can take
that
to the bank and cash it,” Caylin quipped as she grabbed Jo with one hand and the half-closed bag with her other. “
Ta
, luv.”

•  •  •

“I
cannot
believe we pulled that scam,” Theresa exclaimed once she and her compatriots had sprinted far past the security checkpoint. “You two were awesome! I don't know what I would have done if any of that stuff happened to me.”

“Well, it probably would have gone easier if you hadn't
opened your big ol' mouth, Theresa,” Jo said, glowering.

Theresa pouted. “Yeah, sorry . . . I was just trying to help, and—”